striking midnight
by Rozewater
Summary: she's sitting alone in the dark of her room, knowing all too well that time is slowly running out; too bad she doesn't care. - nami


Time? Currently eleven fifty-six and eleven seconds. Although when I finish thinking that sentence, it'll probably be eleven fifty-seven and _thirteen_ seconds.

The digits on the clock always slip away so fast, sometimes I'm not even sure why I pay attention to them anymore. So pointless. It's funny to think that it even used to even be a habit of mine. As a little kid I had always had a fascination with watches. Red ones, blue ones, silver linings and ones with cute little paw prints on the straps… I loved how they ticked. I loved how they were ruled by intricately fascinating knobs and gears. But that fascination went away about the same time that the clock started to hate me. When it starts getting depressing to tell the time – like how you're only seven years old, home alone, and your mother is home late from drinking _again_ – it starts to loose the appeal.

But you get the point. Clocks rarely tell you good news. And it's always running away, too. Hell, it's the very verb we use to describe it in the English language. Time _runs_…

Like so: it's now currently eleven fifty-seven and three seconds. Make that…four.

So it shouldn't come as any surprise that a whole day – hell, a _holi_day – that revolves around time and clock-watching shouldn't really be up that high on my preferred list. It's pointless. Really. Whoever came up with the grand idea that staying up late, drinking yourself into an oblivion, and setting off small explosions in the middle of the night was a good idea ought to be publicly shot. By myself, preferably. It might make me feel a bit better, although it wouldn't really do anything for the small fiasco currently going on just a few feet below me. I can, as we speak, still hear voices oozing though my floorboards and the staccato babble of a shabby radio buzzing in the background.

"We're almost there, folks!" the announcer on talk-show program cheerfully tells his listeners. Which, technically, at this point includes me…since his words are still registering in my brain against my will. "So close, so close! Right now we're at eleven fifty-eight and counting! Are you getting your countdown groups ready, people?"

I find it annoying how there is no place for me to run too. I find it rude how society declares I have no choice but to taint myself with this legal rioting. "Have a drink! Have a toast!" they say. After helping each other chug down a couple barrels of alcohol – only to puke it right back up the next morning – hoards gather together to stare at the seconds passing by and deem it something important. As if. I've been staring at the clock in my room for the past couple hours, and I can tell you from experience that there is nothing special about it. We live in a world where we are all constantly bustling and shuffling by, cursing the sun and how fast it careens across the sky. Yet here we are. On a single, freezing night in the middle of winter, suddenly its our sole, joyful focus.

The damn party is growing more feverish downstairs. And there is nowhere I can go to escape it. One of the bad parts about living in an Inn room with poor sound insulation.

"Only a minute left!" I hear a high pitched, feminine voice with a slight slur squeal from the gathering that's commencing just a few feet south of me. It occurs to the sociologist in me that it would be highly interesting if I could some how rip up the floorboards, silently watch the party from above, and just be a mere witness to their idiocy. It's not like I locked myself into this dark, stuffy bedroom because I had nothing better to do. It's just that while I find people-watching interesting, it bothers me when other's assume I want to get sucked into it all.

Why is it that my peers can't just understand that maybe I don't like large groups, loud noises, and that I might to just want to enjoy myself quietly in the corner? Oh…yeah. Maybe because I never really take the time to make connections, talk, and give anyone a damn. Sarcasm drips, even from my inner monologue. Hmm. One of the drawbacks about being a wanderer, right there. However small.

"Alright!" calls the radio DJ once more, his own speaker-crackled voice growing in excitement despite the childishness of it all. "Wait for it…wait for it…here we go!" And before I know it, I can hear all their muffled voices below me start to chant in unison. The whole village, young and old, beginning a countdown from ten to zero backwards.

"Ten! Nine! Eight…!"

Lightly fingering the blanketed bed I'm sitting on, I briefly wonder if I should join them downstairs. It's a sudden thought and a foolish one. Blinking my eyes to the dim light of my room a couple times, I just shake my head. I've spent the whole night up here away from those hooligans. Why in the world would I want to change my M.O. now? Perhaps it's something in the way all their tones, from girly giggles to low baritones, all gather together and start a pattern I know all too well. It calls back to younger days, sitting with my own family (however fragmented), and counting the same numbers with my own bright blue eyes wide… For some reason, my throat randomly begins to constrict painfully at the thought. Hmm…

Memories cause nothing but trouble…

"Seven! Six! Five…!"

I had just given a sigh and recrossed my legs when a screech assaulted my ears. "Wait!" it called, and I jumped in spite of my self. "Wait! …Where's Nami?" At those words I can feel my own heartbeat flutter vibrantly, my name acting like a cue card for my palms to start sweating. They…well, at least someone…remembered?

"Four! Three!" Of course, it's then that I hear someone shush my nameless voice of concern as the chant continues. A rather religious like frenzy is starting as the moment grows so intoxicatingly close. I bite my lower lip. And close my eyes. The shush echoes in my mind, and I tell myself it's stupid to feel saddened. Of course. You're just an afterthought. And "the moment" is much more important than you. After all, I'm just the antisocial redhead of a foreigner that happens to have a room in the Inn. Shaking my head, I stand up to start fixing my sheets. It's late, after all. And I'm getting tired. Despite that society says I should be withering in happy anxiety right now.

_You know what?_ I think as I pull back the quilt and start to crawl under it, with only the December moon shining though my window as a nightlight. _Time is overrated…_

"Two! One!" I hear a collective shout as I squeeze my eyes shut and brace for impact…

Poppers go off. Kazoos blare. Children call out nonsensically, rejoicing with their adult company. "Happy New Year!" The phrase brands itself in my ears as its only accented by the sounds of happy kissing couples and the clinking of champagne glasses. And the same sentence is repeated out over the airwaves thanks to the DJ.

"Happy New Year, Forget-Me-Not Valley! A very happy new year to you all!"

Time? Twelve, double 'oh. AKA? Midnight. Although when I finish closing my eyes, It'll probably be twelve with a zero-one tacked on the end.


End file.
